FIC: "Found Snuffed a Hidden Candle" (5-6/6)
Title: Found Snuffed a Hidden Candle (5 & 6/6)
Author: Bernie Laraemie
Characters: Gil Grissom, Brass, Greg & Others (No Sara)
Rating: R (sexuality, language, TMI cam)
Warnings: Spoilers for Season 5
Notes: Written for LJ's Grisslash FuhQFest, 1st Wave; Challenge 14, 16 and pairing challenge 7.
Author's Comment: This is a Paul Milander free story, surprising, no?
Summary: A murder victim in a dance studio may be more than Grissom can handle.
Sweet. First completed entry for the FuhQFest. How's everyone else's coming?
"Nothing off the gun's prints," Greg reported, hating to be the bearer of bad news.
Drained, Gil nodded, otherwise unresponsive as he sat in his office, no longer able to cope by mulling over leads. Hard to do when there are none.
Greg walked in the office, uninvited, and sat down. "Did we find the creditor? Or any other shady dealings that could have resulted in this guy's death?"
"Trenton's out on a three day holiday," Gil said finally, "Brass's guys are on it."
Greg motioned toward the folders on Gil's desk, "These are from the file cabinet?"
"Business records, sheet music, choreographer's notes, other things," he itemized, nodding.
"And pictures," Greg said, taking the top most file. "This is the deceased?"
After a minute, Gil nodded.
"Are we sure this guy is straight? Maybe we should be looking at girlfriend. Something's shady about that."
"What makes you say that, Greg?"
Greg looked up at Gil, a little surprised at the dry, hollow tone. "Look at these pictures," Greg said, displaying a choice few. "What straight man would wear that? And what gay man would date a woman?"
"Human sexuality is a curious thing," was the only reply.
"Do we have any motive from the girlfriend? What was her alibi?"
"She doesn't have one, beyond working alone. She doesn't really have motive . . .she has more money; he doesn't even own the building his studio is in."
"What about his house? We never looked there."
Gil looked up. He hadn't thought of that. Perhaps he wasn't paying enough attention to procedure. Perhaps he wanted to avoid it. He was quiet. "All right."
"Nice place," Greg said.
"We're still looking for his lawyer, and his will. If getting his house is motive, we need to know who's getting it."
"Computer, good stereo . . .." Greg walked about the house. "This guy brought his work home with him," he said, pointing to large and cleared area of hardwood flooring.
"A dancer has to practice many, many hours a day to keep in shape." Gil looked around the home, trying to find anything out of place.
"Robbins said he was in good health. Great health, actually." Greg ventured into the kitchen. "I still like the girlfriend for this."
Gil made his way there eventually. "Why?"
"Something about the way she reacted when we said he was dead. It just didn't sit right."
"She's a lawyer, Greg. Some people act differently-an actor is good at showing people something different than what they're truly feeling, and a lot of court proceedings could be related to theatre."
"She didn't even cry," Greg replied.
"Some people wait to cry."
"So you don't think it was her?"
"I'm not ruling-"
"-anyone out," Greg finished for him. "There were a lot of pictures of him in drag. That makes a good case for him being gay."
"A lot of transvestites are straight. You can't say someone is gay because of what they wear." He smiled a little for the first time in a while. "In that case, Nick and Warrick would be prime candidates."
Greg laughed. "You never can tell, I guess."
"No," Gil replied.
"I can make my case for that now," Greg said, stopping at a bookshelf. "Or at least this can." He took something off of the shelf.
"Did you find Gilbert and Sullivan's greatest hits?" he asked with a smile, walking over to him.
"'Penthouse Boyz'," he said, holding up the DVD. "No straight man has a copy of this."
"Some people are bisexual, Greg. And if you want that, you're going to have to buy your own copy."
At that, he quickly put it back.
He'd only been in his office a few minutes before Brass came in.
"Did you know there's an In & Out Burger across the street from that dance studio your vic was?"
"There's a lot of those," Gil replied.
"But only one of them has an employee that says he heard a gun shot the night of your murder case."
In front of the In & Out, Gil and Greg got out of the black SUV. As Greg walked inside, Gil turned, noting in his mind the proximity of the dance studio. He deduced that, while it was possible to hear a gunshot, an uneducated ear would have only heard a loud noise. Still, it gave them an approximate timeframe, if their witness knew what time it had been.
Breaking his line of thought, Brass and Greg came back out, employee in tow. "Gil, this is Grant Hoyt. You want to tell him what you heard?"
A teenager a little taller than Greg stood beside them. "There was a shot fired," he said, "from that office building over there."
"What time?"
"Probably twenty minutes after ten o'clock. I was out here changing the garbage bins, and I started that ten minutes after ten. I remember that much because my super yelled at me for being late with that. I was supposed to start that at ten."
"How are you sure it was a gun shot?"
"Only one thing sounds like a gun. I'm no expert, but I've fired a gun at the range before."
"And that was all you heard?"
"Yeah, but then I turned to look, because of the noise. A few seconds later this guy comes out of the door and blitzes to the parking lot. I thought all that was weird, and then about a few seconds more and the guy goes back in."
"Which door?"
"That one. Next to those potted trees."
"The side door," Gil amended.
"Yeah. That one."
"Directly out of the studio and back in," he said. "There's construction near by. What made you alert the police?"
"I was working until about midnight yesterday. When I saw all the cops pull in, I figured something happened and then this morning I remembered the noises and the dude."
"What did this 'dude' look like?"
"He was dressed all in black. Never saw his face-he was way too far away. But he was fast. I've got friends in track and he could give them a hell of a race."
"How tall was he?"
"Dunno," the teen said with a shrug.
"If we walk across the street, could you tell me his height comparative to the trees?"
"Should we pull him in for questioning?" Greg asked, catching on.
"We don't have anything to hold him on." Gil and company started across the street. "Yet."
Across the street, they stood by the trees. "This tree is a few inches shorter than me, and I'm 5'10. So we'll put the tree's height at about 5'5 for now. He had to run by this one to get to the parking lot. Do you remember his height when he passed it?"
The teen closed his eyes for a minute.
The sun is gone, but the large amber lights shine around the building. The view is from the parking lot across the street, but zooms in once the gun is fired.
A few seconds pass, and then a man comes out, running by the tree-
"It's hard to say. He was running, which puts him lower to the ground. Give me a second." The teen walked backwards, checking beyond him for his path. Stopping just so far from it, he looked around and closed his eyes again.
The shot fires again. The view switches again. The man runs out of the side entrance, and zips by the tree. Waiting a few minutes, he comes back, and then passes the tree. He looks from side to side, and is fiddling with something in front of the door. He drops something, which he has to pick up. He looks around again-
"I saw his face," the teen says. "When he came back. I forgot-when he came back from the parking lot, he had something in his hand, he dropped it. He looked around, and I can remember a little bit what he looked like."
"A key," Gil said.
"He was in front of the door," Hoyt said.
Gil went to stand in front of the door himself, looking around the area before turning back to the witness. "He was between the trees. How tall was he?"
He closed his eyes. "Shorter."
"By how much?"
"Inch or two, I guess. Does it matter if I saw his face?"
"Everyone has eyes and a nose. Not everyone is shorter than this tree." Gil turned to Greg, who still held his kit. "Greg, do you have measuring tape?"
"On this job? I've learned to carry everything," he said, opening the kit and handing over the requested measuring device.
"Hold that end to the bottom of the ground." Gil pulled the measuring tape up to the top of the plant. "I need something long and straight."
"We already have an approximate on the height, Gil."
"An approximate. If we can at least have an exact on this tree, that's less guess work, and gets us closer."
"There's a ruler in my kit," Greg replied helpfully. "Of course, I can't reach it right now."
Brass took the ruler out of the kit, handing it to Gil. "How many scientists does it take to measure a tree?" he postulated.
With the ruler, Gil levelled the tape to the exact height. "Five feet, four and one quarter inches." He gave Greg his measuring implements back. "Thank you, Greg."
"No problem."
"There's someone I like a lot better than his girlfriend," Gil said.
The neglected teen spoke up. "Can I go now?"
"It's not enough to charge him with," Greg said to Gil, who was pacing. He hated waiting.
"No," he agreed.
Brass came in. "It's enough to search his car, though. Still sitting in the parking lot of the studio. Smart boy."
With a quick jimmy from auto detail, the doors were opened.
"Registered owner, Andrew 'Tiny Dancer' Satyr. It was here last night, too."
"What kind of idiot doesn't move his car from a crime scene?" Greg asked.
"The same one who stays behind at the crime scene," Gil replied, inspecting the front seat. "Think about it, would you suspect the person who stays behind? The good Samaritan; the ignorant dancer?" Gil sifted through the trash. "If he was the one eating all these chips and junk, I have no idea how he stayed fit." He pulled a coffee cup out of the refuse. "This could give us a DNA comparison." He dusted it. "And fingerprints," he added.
He went around to the driver's seat, looking under it. He pulled out a little clear bag. "We've got enough to hold him for possession."
"Hey, Gris," Greg called from the back of the car. "I don't think we need to." Standing, he held up a .45 with a triumphant look. "Think we can get him for this now?"
"Aren't we arresting him?" Gil asked Brass.
"You're going to love this one: no address on file. Address on his driver's licence doesn't exist, while that could have been a typo by someone at the DMV, the only other place his address might be is the studio's records."
"Or Bernie's address book," Gil said, jumping over to his desk. He went through the papers like a madman, or at the very least, like a kid who forgot to take his Ritalin-and was mighty happy about it too. "I remember where I saw his address," he said, shortly withdrawing a paper from the stack. "The employee said he came out of and re-entered the side door-the only one that directly enters that studio. Guess who is one of the four key holders of the Victoria Gold Dance School?"
"Our blue jean baby?"
Gil looked confused. "What?"
Brass shook his head. "Never mind." He took the paper. "And as a key holder his address is on file, as per the regulations of the building's lease."
"Now can we arrest him?"
"Gil?"
"Yeah?"
"Calm down."
A knock brought a man to the door-too tall and too burly to be Tiny.
"Are you Andrew Satyr's domestic partner?" asked Brass.
One eyebrow rose, and was accompanied voice seemingly too high to come from that visage. "Honey, with that slut?" Scoff. "Sure."
"You're his room mate?" Gil asked. "He does live here," he said with all his hope, "doesn't he?"
"Just moved in about a few days ago." Andrew's roommate continued, "I knew him casually and he got dumped by that NRA trash he was dating. Grizzly Adams type. I don't like either of them, but the bills need to get paid."
"Where is he now?" Brass asked, before Gil could get his question in.
"Working," he said. "If you can call it that."
"Could you give us the address of his former partner, please?" Gil asked.
With a shrug the roommate replied, "Sure." He disappeared from the doorway, returning with a scribble of paper. "Don't have his address, but there's his name and number."
"Thank you," Gil said, accepting the paper.
"Where does Mr. Satyr work?" Brass asked, back to the original line of questioning.
"The Cabaret. It's a dive over on Jupiter Avenue."
With a few uniforms, the three arrived at the specified club. Ambient smoke, from cigarettes and fog machines, whirled out the doorway after it was opened.
"Nice place," Greg said with a cough. "Bad time to have asthma."
Gil pushed forward, lovingly cradling the arrest warrant. He headed for the nearest server.
"Excuse me," he called over the noise in the foggy atmosphere. "We're looking for Andrew Satyr."
The waiter handed out his drinks before walking over to Gil. "Who?"
"Andrew Satyr. Little guy, only a bit over five feet tall. Apparently he works here. Dark hair, really thin-"
"You mean Tiny? He's up there, dancin'," the waiter replied, walking off hurriedly to serve the other customers.
Gil turned, shortly accompanied by his companions. Sure enough, on the murkily surrounded stage, dim lighting punctuated by blasts from neon spots, was the aptly named Tiny Dancer. Doing a style crossed between pole dancing and what could certainly be deemed 'expressive', he strutted about in a tasselled and sequin thong set.
"//Let's sway; Under the moonlight, this serious moonlight . . ..//" a certain David Bowie called out over the sound system that blared.
"I thought he said he was a ballet dancer," Brass said.
"Just because someone does ballet doesn't mean all there other dancing has to be just as legitimate," he replied. A flash of memory threatened, of Bernie's similar career, but he pushed it back. As they started for the stage, a man quickly approached.
"I'm the owner here, is there a problem?"
Before the others could say anything, Gil put the warrant in his face. "We're here to arrest Mr. Satyr."
"Tiny?" He looked surprised. "Why?"
"Murder suspect," Gil replied.
"What? Murder?" The owner looked at the stage momentarily. "Him?"
"Little guys overcompensate," Brass offered.
"Okay, okay," the owner said, looking at the warrant and then to the armed police officers behind them. He glanced to Tiny, who hadn't noticed any of this by appearances. "At least wait until the song's over? He'll come off stage then." He checked his watch. "Only has a chorus or two left anyway."
"//Let's dance; put on your red shoes and dance the blues,//" Mr. Bowie continued.
"Fine," Gil ceded. Always easier to acquiesce, especially since a fight would only give their quarry time to escape.
In short order, the song stopped and the dancer left the stage. The owner took them to the makeshift backstage, past the barricades of heavy curtains and a not very intimidating door.
"Andrew Satyr," Brass began, pulling out his trusty handcuffs. "You're under arrest."
"I want a lawyer," he said, not taking kindly to his hands pulled behind his back. "And I can get out of these handcuffs."
Gil stepped in front of him, casting an imposing shadow. "If you don't want any more trouble than we're already going to give you, you won't."
Andrew Satyr's lawyer had arrived, but before Gil could enter the interrogation room, he was intercepted by Ecklie.
"You can't go in there," he said bluntly.
"This is my case, Conrad," he retorted.
"Barely," he replied. "You don't have a personal relationship with the vic anymore, according to law. But if you handle this questioning, it's a big opening for it to be shot down in court."
"Greg can't handle this himself," Gil said under his breath. "Not even with Brass with him. I can't let-"
"Gil, calm down. I'll do it with him. I've looked over the case file. If I need anything, I'll come out and talk to you. You can watch, but I'm not letting you in there."
Frowning, Gil nodded, agreeing.
From the window, he watched. Brass had come up beside him, confused at his still being outside of the interrogation room. Seeing Ecklie inside clued him in.
"We found this gun in your car," Ecklie said, presenting him with the evidence bag.
"What were you doing in my car? Besides, there's piles of guns in this country. I'm not the only one with a gun."
"It's the same calibre. And it's not even your gun." More papers landed in front of Tiny. "It belongs to your ex-boyfriend. According to him, he got rid of you for stealing from him. Couldn't resist taking a gun? Good way to try and cop out of a murder."
"A gun owner doesn't file a report about a missing gun?" the lawyer chimed in. "That sounds more like reasonable doubt, or a frame job to me."
"It's only been gone a week, and it was taken from a locked case. He had no reason to suspect it had been taken."
Satyr crossed his arms, huffing and sitting back heavily on the chair. "I'm guilty of stealing a gun. Doesn't mean I killed him."
"Does anyone else use your car?"
After a minute Satyr replied, "No."
"We also found this coffee cup in your car." He put the cup and a second gun in front of them. "The DNA profile matches that found on this gun, planted at the scene of the murder. Your ex also identified it as his. But someone filed off the identification number."
"This is a warrant for your DNA," Greg said, producing the paper. Also producing the swab, he collected his evidence after a dramatic display that eventually led to an open mouth. He handed it to an officer, who left.
The lawyer spoke up then. "DNA on a gun? Isn't it standard to find fingerprints on a gun?"
"The gun had traces of semen on it," Greg continued. "Often times when someone wipes a gun clean of prints they use what's available. So whatever was used, also had semen on it-also frequently found on things that are available."
"I still didn't kill him," Satyr insisted. "Those aren't the only two guns in this country."
Greg placed the bullets in front of the lawyer. "These bullets came from Bernard Hiron's wounds. They match those test fired from that gun, found in your car."
"How can you be sure? Bullets all look the same."
"Fingerprints look the same, Mr. Satyr," Ecklie said, "but we can tell those apart."
"Speaking of that," Greg said, "here's a warrant for your fingerprints."
"Your name is on a list of key holders for the studio. A witness saw someone exit the side door, run to the parking lot, then go back through that door. Only the studio's key can open that door. That narrows it down to three. The gun in your car narrows it down to you. All we need is the DNA to prove it."
"I've only had a key for two days," Satyr snapped back.
"That doesn't mean you didn't do it," Ecklie replied.
"If you stash a gun in your car," Greg started, cutting in, "why leave it in the parking lot of a crime scene?"
Satyr was quiet.
Gil stopped the officer who was to return to the questioning. He handed him a piece of paper, and whispered to him. Gil watched him enter the room, and pass it to Greg as he'd been instructed.
"DNA was a match," Greg said.
"That quickly?" the lawyer said sceptical.
"Technology is a wonderful thing."
Not missing the beat, Ecklie leaned in. "Why'd you do it, Andrew?"
"Do I look like a cow to you?" he asked, venom throughout his tone.
"Not particularly," Greg replied.
"Well apparently I did to Bernie. Milk, steak, hamburgers, whatever. I'm not being treated like that."
"What are you talking about?" Greg asked, pushing those buttons.
Satyr uncrossed his arms, putting them on the table and leaning forward with aggression. "That bitch, let me tell you, he couldn't respect. Treats me like his personal little toy, keeps me hanging on, and then one day comes in with that upstart lawyer chick. That's against the rules," he said, jabbing his finger on the table.
"Rules?"
"Andrew," his lawyer interjected.
"Shut up," he snapped. "The rules. You want to sleep around? Fine. But you don't take the sex and lead someone on and don't tell them just because you want to go with the ladies. I know all about that, men of his type. Lead you on, 'cause they like and it floats their boat, and before you know it, they're with some rack with a good name."
"You killed him because he wouldn't date you," Greg said.
"No." Satyr shook his head. "He told me he was gay. And then he comes in with that bitch. Plays me like that? I don't think so." He slammed the table. "You pay for a lie like that. And I made him pay for it."
"Reverse discrimination," Brass said. "Killed for being straight."
Gil watched only a minute longer, before the weight he felt forced him to leave.
In the dimly lit townhouse, Gil sat. He felt alone, even though he wasn't.
"You want me to make some tea?" Bobby asked.
Gil shook his head. He was quiet, and felt bad for that, but didn't know what to say.
Bobby put a comforting arm around him. "How are you feeling?"
Gil shook his head. "I have the closure . . .but it's just another piece of an empty puzzle. The pieces are there but the canvas is black."
"Was it a good idea to work the case?"
"I don't know. I felt that I owed it to Bernie, to find who'd done it." He put his face in his palms until he'd gathered his strength to sit up. "At least I have that."
Bobby couldn't think of anything to say. In any case, there didn't seem to be a comforting option.
After a minute, Gil started crying, memories blindsiding him in the atmospheric lack of work. A little surprised but somehow heartened at the display, Bobby leaned closer. In the silence, there was solace.
~~~ fin ~~~
Author: Bernie Laraemie
Characters: Gil Grissom, Brass, Greg & Others (No Sara)
Rating: R (sexuality, language, TMI cam)
Warnings: Spoilers for Season 5
Notes: Written for LJ's Grisslash FuhQFest, 1st Wave; Challenge 14, 16 and pairing challenge 7.
Author's Comment: This is a Paul Milander free story, surprising, no?
Summary: A murder victim in a dance studio may be more than Grissom can handle.
Sweet. First completed entry for the FuhQFest. How's everyone else's coming?
"Nothing off the gun's prints," Greg reported, hating to be the bearer of bad news.
Drained, Gil nodded, otherwise unresponsive as he sat in his office, no longer able to cope by mulling over leads. Hard to do when there are none.
Greg walked in the office, uninvited, and sat down. "Did we find the creditor? Or any other shady dealings that could have resulted in this guy's death?"
"Trenton's out on a three day holiday," Gil said finally, "Brass's guys are on it."
Greg motioned toward the folders on Gil's desk, "These are from the file cabinet?"
"Business records, sheet music, choreographer's notes, other things," he itemized, nodding.
"And pictures," Greg said, taking the top most file. "This is the deceased?"
After a minute, Gil nodded.
"Are we sure this guy is straight? Maybe we should be looking at girlfriend. Something's shady about that."
"What makes you say that, Greg?"
Greg looked up at Gil, a little surprised at the dry, hollow tone. "Look at these pictures," Greg said, displaying a choice few. "What straight man would wear that? And what gay man would date a woman?"
"Human sexuality is a curious thing," was the only reply.
"Do we have any motive from the girlfriend? What was her alibi?"
"She doesn't have one, beyond working alone. She doesn't really have motive . . .she has more money; he doesn't even own the building his studio is in."
"What about his house? We never looked there."
Gil looked up. He hadn't thought of that. Perhaps he wasn't paying enough attention to procedure. Perhaps he wanted to avoid it. He was quiet. "All right."
"Nice place," Greg said.
"We're still looking for his lawyer, and his will. If getting his house is motive, we need to know who's getting it."
"Computer, good stereo . . .." Greg walked about the house. "This guy brought his work home with him," he said, pointing to large and cleared area of hardwood flooring.
"A dancer has to practice many, many hours a day to keep in shape." Gil looked around the home, trying to find anything out of place.
"Robbins said he was in good health. Great health, actually." Greg ventured into the kitchen. "I still like the girlfriend for this."
Gil made his way there eventually. "Why?"
"Something about the way she reacted when we said he was dead. It just didn't sit right."
"She's a lawyer, Greg. Some people act differently-an actor is good at showing people something different than what they're truly feeling, and a lot of court proceedings could be related to theatre."
"She didn't even cry," Greg replied.
"Some people wait to cry."
"So you don't think it was her?"
"I'm not ruling-"
"-anyone out," Greg finished for him. "There were a lot of pictures of him in drag. That makes a good case for him being gay."
"A lot of transvestites are straight. You can't say someone is gay because of what they wear." He smiled a little for the first time in a while. "In that case, Nick and Warrick would be prime candidates."
Greg laughed. "You never can tell, I guess."
"No," Gil replied.
"I can make my case for that now," Greg said, stopping at a bookshelf. "Or at least this can." He took something off of the shelf.
"Did you find Gilbert and Sullivan's greatest hits?" he asked with a smile, walking over to him.
"'Penthouse Boyz'," he said, holding up the DVD. "No straight man has a copy of this."
"Some people are bisexual, Greg. And if you want that, you're going to have to buy your own copy."
At that, he quickly put it back.
He'd only been in his office a few minutes before Brass came in.
"Did you know there's an In & Out Burger across the street from that dance studio your vic was?"
"There's a lot of those," Gil replied.
"But only one of them has an employee that says he heard a gun shot the night of your murder case."
In front of the In & Out, Gil and Greg got out of the black SUV. As Greg walked inside, Gil turned, noting in his mind the proximity of the dance studio. He deduced that, while it was possible to hear a gunshot, an uneducated ear would have only heard a loud noise. Still, it gave them an approximate timeframe, if their witness knew what time it had been.
Breaking his line of thought, Brass and Greg came back out, employee in tow. "Gil, this is Grant Hoyt. You want to tell him what you heard?"
A teenager a little taller than Greg stood beside them. "There was a shot fired," he said, "from that office building over there."
"What time?"
"Probably twenty minutes after ten o'clock. I was out here changing the garbage bins, and I started that ten minutes after ten. I remember that much because my super yelled at me for being late with that. I was supposed to start that at ten."
"How are you sure it was a gun shot?"
"Only one thing sounds like a gun. I'm no expert, but I've fired a gun at the range before."
"And that was all you heard?"
"Yeah, but then I turned to look, because of the noise. A few seconds later this guy comes out of the door and blitzes to the parking lot. I thought all that was weird, and then about a few seconds more and the guy goes back in."
"Which door?"
"That one. Next to those potted trees."
"The side door," Gil amended.
"Yeah. That one."
"Directly out of the studio and back in," he said. "There's construction near by. What made you alert the police?"
"I was working until about midnight yesterday. When I saw all the cops pull in, I figured something happened and then this morning I remembered the noises and the dude."
"What did this 'dude' look like?"
"He was dressed all in black. Never saw his face-he was way too far away. But he was fast. I've got friends in track and he could give them a hell of a race."
"How tall was he?"
"Dunno," the teen said with a shrug.
"If we walk across the street, could you tell me his height comparative to the trees?"
"Should we pull him in for questioning?" Greg asked, catching on.
"We don't have anything to hold him on." Gil and company started across the street. "Yet."
Across the street, they stood by the trees. "This tree is a few inches shorter than me, and I'm 5'10. So we'll put the tree's height at about 5'5 for now. He had to run by this one to get to the parking lot. Do you remember his height when he passed it?"
The teen closed his eyes for a minute.
The sun is gone, but the large amber lights shine around the building. The view is from the parking lot across the street, but zooms in once the gun is fired.
A few seconds pass, and then a man comes out, running by the tree-
"It's hard to say. He was running, which puts him lower to the ground. Give me a second." The teen walked backwards, checking beyond him for his path. Stopping just so far from it, he looked around and closed his eyes again.
The shot fires again. The view switches again. The man runs out of the side entrance, and zips by the tree. Waiting a few minutes, he comes back, and then passes the tree. He looks from side to side, and is fiddling with something in front of the door. He drops something, which he has to pick up. He looks around again-
"I saw his face," the teen says. "When he came back. I forgot-when he came back from the parking lot, he had something in his hand, he dropped it. He looked around, and I can remember a little bit what he looked like."
"A key," Gil said.
"He was in front of the door," Hoyt said.
Gil went to stand in front of the door himself, looking around the area before turning back to the witness. "He was between the trees. How tall was he?"
He closed his eyes. "Shorter."
"By how much?"
"Inch or two, I guess. Does it matter if I saw his face?"
"Everyone has eyes and a nose. Not everyone is shorter than this tree." Gil turned to Greg, who still held his kit. "Greg, do you have measuring tape?"
"On this job? I've learned to carry everything," he said, opening the kit and handing over the requested measuring device.
"Hold that end to the bottom of the ground." Gil pulled the measuring tape up to the top of the plant. "I need something long and straight."
"We already have an approximate on the height, Gil."
"An approximate. If we can at least have an exact on this tree, that's less guess work, and gets us closer."
"There's a ruler in my kit," Greg replied helpfully. "Of course, I can't reach it right now."
Brass took the ruler out of the kit, handing it to Gil. "How many scientists does it take to measure a tree?" he postulated.
With the ruler, Gil levelled the tape to the exact height. "Five feet, four and one quarter inches." He gave Greg his measuring implements back. "Thank you, Greg."
"No problem."
"There's someone I like a lot better than his girlfriend," Gil said.
The neglected teen spoke up. "Can I go now?"
"It's not enough to charge him with," Greg said to Gil, who was pacing. He hated waiting.
"No," he agreed.
Brass came in. "It's enough to search his car, though. Still sitting in the parking lot of the studio. Smart boy."
With a quick jimmy from auto detail, the doors were opened.
"Registered owner, Andrew 'Tiny Dancer' Satyr. It was here last night, too."
"What kind of idiot doesn't move his car from a crime scene?" Greg asked.
"The same one who stays behind at the crime scene," Gil replied, inspecting the front seat. "Think about it, would you suspect the person who stays behind? The good Samaritan; the ignorant dancer?" Gil sifted through the trash. "If he was the one eating all these chips and junk, I have no idea how he stayed fit." He pulled a coffee cup out of the refuse. "This could give us a DNA comparison." He dusted it. "And fingerprints," he added.
He went around to the driver's seat, looking under it. He pulled out a little clear bag. "We've got enough to hold him for possession."
"Hey, Gris," Greg called from the back of the car. "I don't think we need to." Standing, he held up a .45 with a triumphant look. "Think we can get him for this now?"
"Aren't we arresting him?" Gil asked Brass.
"You're going to love this one: no address on file. Address on his driver's licence doesn't exist, while that could have been a typo by someone at the DMV, the only other place his address might be is the studio's records."
"Or Bernie's address book," Gil said, jumping over to his desk. He went through the papers like a madman, or at the very least, like a kid who forgot to take his Ritalin-and was mighty happy about it too. "I remember where I saw his address," he said, shortly withdrawing a paper from the stack. "The employee said he came out of and re-entered the side door-the only one that directly enters that studio. Guess who is one of the four key holders of the Victoria Gold Dance School?"
"Our blue jean baby?"
Gil looked confused. "What?"
Brass shook his head. "Never mind." He took the paper. "And as a key holder his address is on file, as per the regulations of the building's lease."
"Now can we arrest him?"
"Gil?"
"Yeah?"
"Calm down."
A knock brought a man to the door-too tall and too burly to be Tiny.
"Are you Andrew Satyr's domestic partner?" asked Brass.
One eyebrow rose, and was accompanied voice seemingly too high to come from that visage. "Honey, with that slut?" Scoff. "Sure."
"You're his room mate?" Gil asked. "He does live here," he said with all his hope, "doesn't he?"
"Just moved in about a few days ago." Andrew's roommate continued, "I knew him casually and he got dumped by that NRA trash he was dating. Grizzly Adams type. I don't like either of them, but the bills need to get paid."
"Where is he now?" Brass asked, before Gil could get his question in.
"Working," he said. "If you can call it that."
"Could you give us the address of his former partner, please?" Gil asked.
With a shrug the roommate replied, "Sure." He disappeared from the doorway, returning with a scribble of paper. "Don't have his address, but there's his name and number."
"Thank you," Gil said, accepting the paper.
"Where does Mr. Satyr work?" Brass asked, back to the original line of questioning.
"The Cabaret. It's a dive over on Jupiter Avenue."
With a few uniforms, the three arrived at the specified club. Ambient smoke, from cigarettes and fog machines, whirled out the doorway after it was opened.
"Nice place," Greg said with a cough. "Bad time to have asthma."
Gil pushed forward, lovingly cradling the arrest warrant. He headed for the nearest server.
"Excuse me," he called over the noise in the foggy atmosphere. "We're looking for Andrew Satyr."
The waiter handed out his drinks before walking over to Gil. "Who?"
"Andrew Satyr. Little guy, only a bit over five feet tall. Apparently he works here. Dark hair, really thin-"
"You mean Tiny? He's up there, dancin'," the waiter replied, walking off hurriedly to serve the other customers.
Gil turned, shortly accompanied by his companions. Sure enough, on the murkily surrounded stage, dim lighting punctuated by blasts from neon spots, was the aptly named Tiny Dancer. Doing a style crossed between pole dancing and what could certainly be deemed 'expressive', he strutted about in a tasselled and sequin thong set.
"//Let's sway; Under the moonlight, this serious moonlight . . ..//" a certain David Bowie called out over the sound system that blared.
"I thought he said he was a ballet dancer," Brass said.
"Just because someone does ballet doesn't mean all there other dancing has to be just as legitimate," he replied. A flash of memory threatened, of Bernie's similar career, but he pushed it back. As they started for the stage, a man quickly approached.
"I'm the owner here, is there a problem?"
Before the others could say anything, Gil put the warrant in his face. "We're here to arrest Mr. Satyr."
"Tiny?" He looked surprised. "Why?"
"Murder suspect," Gil replied.
"What? Murder?" The owner looked at the stage momentarily. "Him?"
"Little guys overcompensate," Brass offered.
"Okay, okay," the owner said, looking at the warrant and then to the armed police officers behind them. He glanced to Tiny, who hadn't noticed any of this by appearances. "At least wait until the song's over? He'll come off stage then." He checked his watch. "Only has a chorus or two left anyway."
"//Let's dance; put on your red shoes and dance the blues,//" Mr. Bowie continued.
"Fine," Gil ceded. Always easier to acquiesce, especially since a fight would only give their quarry time to escape.
In short order, the song stopped and the dancer left the stage. The owner took them to the makeshift backstage, past the barricades of heavy curtains and a not very intimidating door.
"Andrew Satyr," Brass began, pulling out his trusty handcuffs. "You're under arrest."
"I want a lawyer," he said, not taking kindly to his hands pulled behind his back. "And I can get out of these handcuffs."
Gil stepped in front of him, casting an imposing shadow. "If you don't want any more trouble than we're already going to give you, you won't."
Andrew Satyr's lawyer had arrived, but before Gil could enter the interrogation room, he was intercepted by Ecklie.
"You can't go in there," he said bluntly.
"This is my case, Conrad," he retorted.
"Barely," he replied. "You don't have a personal relationship with the vic anymore, according to law. But if you handle this questioning, it's a big opening for it to be shot down in court."
"Greg can't handle this himself," Gil said under his breath. "Not even with Brass with him. I can't let-"
"Gil, calm down. I'll do it with him. I've looked over the case file. If I need anything, I'll come out and talk to you. You can watch, but I'm not letting you in there."
Frowning, Gil nodded, agreeing.
From the window, he watched. Brass had come up beside him, confused at his still being outside of the interrogation room. Seeing Ecklie inside clued him in.
"We found this gun in your car," Ecklie said, presenting him with the evidence bag.
"What were you doing in my car? Besides, there's piles of guns in this country. I'm not the only one with a gun."
"It's the same calibre. And it's not even your gun." More papers landed in front of Tiny. "It belongs to your ex-boyfriend. According to him, he got rid of you for stealing from him. Couldn't resist taking a gun? Good way to try and cop out of a murder."
"A gun owner doesn't file a report about a missing gun?" the lawyer chimed in. "That sounds more like reasonable doubt, or a frame job to me."
"It's only been gone a week, and it was taken from a locked case. He had no reason to suspect it had been taken."
Satyr crossed his arms, huffing and sitting back heavily on the chair. "I'm guilty of stealing a gun. Doesn't mean I killed him."
"Does anyone else use your car?"
After a minute Satyr replied, "No."
"We also found this coffee cup in your car." He put the cup and a second gun in front of them. "The DNA profile matches that found on this gun, planted at the scene of the murder. Your ex also identified it as his. But someone filed off the identification number."
"This is a warrant for your DNA," Greg said, producing the paper. Also producing the swab, he collected his evidence after a dramatic display that eventually led to an open mouth. He handed it to an officer, who left.
The lawyer spoke up then. "DNA on a gun? Isn't it standard to find fingerprints on a gun?"
"The gun had traces of semen on it," Greg continued. "Often times when someone wipes a gun clean of prints they use what's available. So whatever was used, also had semen on it-also frequently found on things that are available."
"I still didn't kill him," Satyr insisted. "Those aren't the only two guns in this country."
Greg placed the bullets in front of the lawyer. "These bullets came from Bernard Hiron's wounds. They match those test fired from that gun, found in your car."
"How can you be sure? Bullets all look the same."
"Fingerprints look the same, Mr. Satyr," Ecklie said, "but we can tell those apart."
"Speaking of that," Greg said, "here's a warrant for your fingerprints."
"Your name is on a list of key holders for the studio. A witness saw someone exit the side door, run to the parking lot, then go back through that door. Only the studio's key can open that door. That narrows it down to three. The gun in your car narrows it down to you. All we need is the DNA to prove it."
"I've only had a key for two days," Satyr snapped back.
"That doesn't mean you didn't do it," Ecklie replied.
"If you stash a gun in your car," Greg started, cutting in, "why leave it in the parking lot of a crime scene?"
Satyr was quiet.
Gil stopped the officer who was to return to the questioning. He handed him a piece of paper, and whispered to him. Gil watched him enter the room, and pass it to Greg as he'd been instructed.
"DNA was a match," Greg said.
"That quickly?" the lawyer said sceptical.
"Technology is a wonderful thing."
Not missing the beat, Ecklie leaned in. "Why'd you do it, Andrew?"
"Do I look like a cow to you?" he asked, venom throughout his tone.
"Not particularly," Greg replied.
"Well apparently I did to Bernie. Milk, steak, hamburgers, whatever. I'm not being treated like that."
"What are you talking about?" Greg asked, pushing those buttons.
Satyr uncrossed his arms, putting them on the table and leaning forward with aggression. "That bitch, let me tell you, he couldn't respect. Treats me like his personal little toy, keeps me hanging on, and then one day comes in with that upstart lawyer chick. That's against the rules," he said, jabbing his finger on the table.
"Rules?"
"Andrew," his lawyer interjected.
"Shut up," he snapped. "The rules. You want to sleep around? Fine. But you don't take the sex and lead someone on and don't tell them just because you want to go with the ladies. I know all about that, men of his type. Lead you on, 'cause they like and it floats their boat, and before you know it, they're with some rack with a good name."
"You killed him because he wouldn't date you," Greg said.
"No." Satyr shook his head. "He told me he was gay. And then he comes in with that bitch. Plays me like that? I don't think so." He slammed the table. "You pay for a lie like that. And I made him pay for it."
"Reverse discrimination," Brass said. "Killed for being straight."
Gil watched only a minute longer, before the weight he felt forced him to leave.
In the dimly lit townhouse, Gil sat. He felt alone, even though he wasn't.
"You want me to make some tea?" Bobby asked.
Gil shook his head. He was quiet, and felt bad for that, but didn't know what to say.
Bobby put a comforting arm around him. "How are you feeling?"
Gil shook his head. "I have the closure . . .but it's just another piece of an empty puzzle. The pieces are there but the canvas is black."
"Was it a good idea to work the case?"
"I don't know. I felt that I owed it to Bernie, to find who'd done it." He put his face in his palms until he'd gathered his strength to sit up. "At least I have that."
Bobby couldn't think of anything to say. In any case, there didn't seem to be a comforting option.
After a minute, Gil started crying, memories blindsiding him in the atmospheric lack of work. A little surprised but somehow heartened at the display, Bobby leaned closer. In the silence, there was solace.
~~~ fin ~~~